The Philo Vance Megapack

by S. S. Van Dine

  Vance looked at the man a while seriously, and then slowly nodded.

  “That will be quite all right, Sergeant,” he said calmly. “I may need your help. And as for finding me wrong: I’m willin’, don’t y’ know—like Barkis. But how are you going to have grandchildren when you’re not even a benedick?261… In the meantime, Sergeant,” he went on, dropping his jocular manner, and jotting down something on a small piece of yellow paper he had torn from the scratch-pad on Markham’s desk, “have this carefully attended to—constant observation. You understand?”

  Heath took the yellow slip, looked at it in utter amazement, and then stuffed it into his pocket. His eyes were wide and a look of skepticism and incredulity came into them.

  “I don’t like to say so, Mr. Vance, but I think you’re daffy, sir.”

  “I don’t in the least mind, Sergeant.” Vance spoke almost affectionately. “But I want you to see to it, nevertheless.” And he met the other’s gaze coldly and steadily.

  Heath moved his head up and down, his lips hanging open in disbelief.

  “If you say so, sir,” he mumbled. “But I still think—”

  “Never mind making the effort, Sergeant.” There was an irresistibly imperious note in Vance’s tone. “But if you disobey that order—which, incidentally, is the first I’ve ever given you—I cannot proceed with the case.”

  Heath tried to grin but failed.

  “I’ll take care of it,” he said. Though he was still awestricken, his tone was subdued. “When do we go?”

  “After dark, of course,” Vance replied, relaxing perceptibly. “It’s misty and somewhat overcast today.… Be at my apartment at half-past eight. We’ll drive up in my car.”

  Again the Sergeant moved his head up and down slowly.

  “God Almighty!” he said. “I can’t believe it: it don’t make sense. Anyway,” he added, “I’ll string along with you, Mr. Vance. I’ll be there at eight-thirty—heeled plenty.”

  “So you really believe I may be right,” said Vance with a smile.

  “Well, I ain’t taking any chances—come what may.”

  CHAPTER XVII

  SHOTS IN THE DARK

  (Friday, July 22; noon.)

  Vance remained in Markham’s office only a short time after his enigmatic talk with Heath. (I did not regard that brief conversation as particularly momentous at the time, but within a few hours I learned that it was actually one of the most important conversations that had ever passed between these two widely disparate, but mutually sympathetic, men.)

  Markham attempted repeatedly, with both cajolery and brusqueness, to draw Vance out. The District Attorney wished particularly to hear what significance Vance attached to the missing alexandrite, and what import he had sensed in the two notes which Kenting and Fleel had brought in. Vance, however, was unusually grave and adamant. He would give no excuse for not expressing freely his theory regarding the case; but his manner was such that Markham realized, as did I, that Vance had an excellent reason for temporarily withholding his suspicions from the District Attorney—and, I might add, from me as well.

  In the end Markham was highly annoyed and, I think, somewhat resentful.

  “I trust you know, Vance,” he said in a tone intended to be coldly formal, but which did not entirely disguise his deep-rooted respect for the peculiar methods Vance followed in his investigation of a case, “that, as official head of the Police Department, I can compel Sergeant Heath here to show me that slip of paper you handed him.”

  “I fully appreciate that fact,” Vance replied in a tone equally as frigid as Markham’s. “But I also know you will not do it.” Only once, during the investigation of the Bishop murder case, had I seen so serious an expression in Vance’s eyes. “I know I can trust you to do nothing of the kind, and to forgo your technical rights in this instance.” His voice suddenly softened and a look of genuine affection overspread his face as he added: “I want your confidence until tonight—I want you to believe that I have good and specific reasons for my seemingly boorish obstinacy.”

  Markham kept his eyes on Vance for several moments and then glanced away as he busied himself a little ostentatiously with a cigar.

  “You’re a damned nuisance,” he mumbled, with simulated anger. “I wish I had never seen you.”

  “Do you flatter yourself, for one minute, Markham,” retorted Vance, “that I have particularly enjoyed your acquaintance during the past fifteen years?”

  And then Vance did something I had never seen him do before. He took a step toward Markham and held out his hand. Markham turned to him without any show of surprise and grasped his hand with sincere cordiality.

  “After all,” said Vance lightly, “you’re only a District Attorney, don’t y’ know. I’ll make due allowances.” And he went from the room without another word, leaving the Sergeant and Markham in the room together.

  Vance and I had luncheon at the Caviar Restaurant, and he lingered unconscionably long over his favorite brandy, which they always kept for him and brought out ceremoniously when he appeared at that restaurant. During the meal he spoke but infrequently—and then about subjects far removed from the Kenting case.

  We went directly home after he had finished sipping his cognac, and Vance spent the entire afternoon in desultory reading in the library. I went into the room for some papers around four o’clock and noticed that he was engrossed in Erasmus’ Encomium Moriæ.

  As I stood for a moment behind him, looking discreetly over his shoulder, he looked up with a serious expression: he had settled into a studious mood.

  “After all, Van,” he commented, “what would the world be without folly? Nothing matters vitally—does it? Listen to this comfortin’ thought:”—he ran his finger along the Erasmus passage before him and translated the words slowly—”’So likewise all this life of mortal man, what is it but a certain kind of stage play?’… Same like Shakespeare wrote in As You Like It, which came a century later—what?”

  Vance was in a peculiar humor, and I knew he was endeavoring to cover up what was actually in his mind; and for some reason, which I could not understand, I was prompted to quote to him, in answer, the famous line from Horace’s Epistles: Nec lusisse pudet, sed non incidere ludum. However, I refrained, and went on about my work as Vance took up his book again.

  A little before six o’clock Markham came in unexpectedly.

  “Well, Vance,” he said banteringly, “I suppose you’re still indulging your flair for melodramatic reticence, and are still playing the part of l’homme de mystère. However, I’ll respect your idiosyncrasies—with tongue in cheek, of course.”

  “Most generous of you,” murmured Vance. “I’m overwhelmed.… What do you wish to tell me? I know full well you didn’t come all the way to my humble diggin’s without some sad message for me.”

  Markham sobered and sat down near Vance.

  “I haven’t heard yet from either Fleel or Kenting.…” he began.

  “I rather expected that bit of news.” Vance rose and, ringing for Currie, ordered Dubonnet. Then, as he resumed his seat, he went on. “Really, there’s nothing to worry about. They have probably decided to proceed without the bunglin’ assistance of the police this time—those last notes were pretty insistent on that point. Kenting undoubtedly has received his instructions.… By the by, have you tried to communicate with him?”

  Markham nodded gravely.

  “I tried to reach him at his office an hour ago, and was told he had gone home. I called him there, but the butler told me he had come in and had just gone out without leaving any instructions except that he would not be home for dinner.”

  “Not what you’d call a highly cooperative johnnie—what?”

  The Dubonnet was served, and Vance sipped the wine placidly.

  “Of course, you tried to reach him at the Purple House?”

  “Of course I did,” Markham answered. “But he wasn’t there either and wasn’t expected there.”

  “Very intere
stin’,” murmured Vance. “Elusive chap. Food for thought, Markham. Think it over.”

  “I also tried to get in touch with Fleel,” Markham continued doggedly. “But he, like Kenting it seems, had left his office earlier than usual today; nor was I able to reach him at his home.”

  “Two missin’ men,” commented Vance. “Very sad. But no need to be upset. Just a private matter being handled privately, I fear. District Attorney’s office and the police not bein’ trusted. Not entirely unintelligent.” He set down his Dubonnet glass. “But there’s business afoot, or else I’m horribly mistaken. And what can you do? The actors in the tragic drama refuse to make an appearance. Most disconcertin’, from the official point of view. The only thing left for you is to ring down the curtain temporarily, and bide your time. C’est la fin de la pauvre Manon—or words to that effect. Abominable opera. Incidentally, what are your plans for the evening?”

  “I have to get dressed and attend a damned silly banquet tonight,” grumbled Markham.

  “It’ll probably do you good,” said Vance. “And when you make your speech, you can solemnly assure your bored listeners that the situation is under control, and that developments are expected very soon—or golden words to that effect.”

  Markham remained a short time longer and then went out. Vance resumed his interrupted reading.

  Shortly after seven we had a simple home dinner which Currie served to us in the library, consisting of gigot, rissoulées potatoes, fresh mint jelly, asparagus hollandaise, and savarins à la Medicis.

  Promptly at half-past eight the Sergeant arrived.

  “I still think you’re daffy, Mr. Vance,” he said good-naturedly, as he took a long drink of Bourbon. “However, everything is being attended to.”

  “If I’m wrong, Sergeant,” said Vance with pretended entreaty, “you must never divulge our little secret. The humiliation would be far too great. And I’m waxin’ old and sensitive.”

  Heath chuckled and poured himself another glass of Bourbon. As he did so Vance went to the centre-table and, opening the drawer, brought out an automatic. He inspected it carefully, made sure the magazine was full, and then slipped it into his pocket.

  I had risen and was now standing beside him. I reached out my hand for the other automatic in the drawer—the one I had carried in Central Park the night before—but Vance quickly closed the drawer and, turning to me, shook his head in negation.

  “Sorry, Van,” he said, “but I think you’d better bide at home tonight. This may be a very dangerous mission—or it may be an erroneous guess on my part. However, I rather anticipate trouble, and you’ll be safer in your boudoir.…”

  I became indignant and insisted that I go with him and share whatever danger the night might hold.

  Again Vance shook his head.

  “I think not, Van.” He spoke in a strangely gentle tone. “No need whatever for you to take the risk. I’ll tell you all about it when the Sergeant and I return.”

  He smiled with finality, but I became more insistent and more indignant, and told him frankly that, whether he gave me the gun or not, I intended to go along with him and Heath.

  Vance studied me for several moments.

  “All right, Van,” he said at length. “But don’t forget that I warned you.” Without saying any more he swung about to the table, opened the drawer, and brought out the other automatic. “I suggest you keep it in your outside pocket this time,” he advised, as he handed me the gun. “It’s rather difficult to prophesy, don’t y’ know—though I’m hopin’ you won’t need the bally thing.” Then, going to the window, he looked out for a moment. “It’ll be dark by the time we get there.” He turned slowly from the window and crossed the room to ring for Currie.

  When the butler came into the room Vance looked at him for a while in silence, with a kindly smile.

  “If you don’t hear from me by eleven,” he said, “go to bed. And schlafen Sie wohl! If I am not back in the morning, you will find some interesting legal documents in a blue envelope with your name on it, in the upper right-hand drawer of the secret’ry. And notify Mr. Markham.” He turned round to Heath with an air of exaggerated nonchalance. “Come along, Sergeant,” he said. “Let’s be on our way. Duty calls, as the sayin’ goes. Ich dien, and all that sort of twaddle.”

  We went down to the street in silence—Vance’s instructions to Currie had struck me as curiously portentous. We got into Vance’s car, which was waiting outside, Heath and I in the tonneau and Vance at the wheel.

  Vance was an expert driver, and he handled the Hispano-Suiza with a quiet efficiency and care that made the long, low-slung car seem almost something animate. There was never the slightest sound of enmeshing gears, never the slightest jerk, as he stopped and started the car in the flow of traffic.

  We drove up Fifth Avenue to its northern end, and there crossed the Harlem River into the Bronx. At the far side of the bridge Vance stopped the car and drew a folded map from his pocket.

  “No need to lose ourselves in this maze of crisscrossing avenues,” he remarked to us over his shoulder. “Since we know where we’re going, we might as well mark the route.” He had unfolded the map and was tracing an itinerary at one side of it. “Westchester Avenue will take us at least half of the way to our destination; and then if I can work my way through to Bassett Avenue we should have no further difficulties.”

  He placed the map on the seat beside him and drove on. At the intersection of East 177th Street he made a sharp turn to the left, and we skirted the grounds of the New York Catholic Protectory. After a few more turns a street sign showed that we were on Bassett Avenue, and Vance continued to the north. At its upper end we found ourselves at a small stretch of water,262 and Vance again stopped the car to consult his map.

  “I’ve gone a little too far,” he informed us, as he took the wheel again and turned the car sharply to the left, at right angles with Bassett Avenue. “But I’ll go through to the next avenue—Waring, I think it is—turn south there, and park the car just round the corner from Lord Street. The number we’re looking for should be there or thereabouts.”

  It took a few minutes to make the detour, for the roadway was unsuitable for automobile traffic. Vance shut off all his lights as we approached the corner, and we drove the last half block in complete darkness, as the nearest street light was far down Waring Avenue. The gliding Hispano-Suiza made no sound under Vance’s efficient handling; even the closing of the doors, as we got out, could not be heard more than a few feet away.

  We proceeded on foot into Lord Street, a narrow thoroughfare and sparsely inhabited. Here and there was an old wooden shack, standing out, in the darkness of the night, as a black patch against the overcast sky.

  “It would be on this side of the street,” Vance said, in a low, vibrant voice. “This is the even-number side. My guess is it’s that next two-story structure, just beyond this vacant lot.”

  “I think you’re right at that,” Heath returned, sotto voce.

  When we stood in front of the small frame dwelling, it seemed particularly black. There was no light showing at any of the windows. Until we accustomed our eyes to the darkness it looked as if the place had no windows at all.

  Heath tiptoed up the three sagging wooden steps that led to the narrow front porch and flashed his light close to the door. Crudely painted on the lintel was the number we sought. The Sergeant beckoned to us with a sweeping gesture of his arm, and Vance and I joined him silently before the wooden-panelled front door with its nondescript peeling paint. At one side of the door was an old-fashioned bell-pull with a white knob, and Vance gave it a tentative jerk.

  There was a faint tinkle inside, and we stood waiting, filled with misgivings and not knowing what to expect. I saw Heath slip his hand into the pocket where he carried his gun; and I too—by instinct or imitation—dropped my hand into my right outside coat pocket and, grasping my automatic, shifted the safety release.

  After a long delay, during which we remained there
without a sound, we heard a leisurely shifting of the bolts. The door then opened a few inches, and the pinched yellow face of an undersized Chinaman peered out cautiously at us.

  As I stood there, straining my eyes through the partly open door at the yellow face that looked inquisitively out at us, the significance of the imprint of the Chinese sandals at the foot of the ladder, as well as of the Sinological nature of the signatures of the various ransom notes, flashed through my mind. I knew in that brief moment that Vance had interpreted the address correctly, and that we had come to the right house. Although I had not doubted the accuracy of Vance’s prognostication, a chill swept over me as I stared at the flat yellow features of the small man on the other side of the door.

  Vance immediately wedged his foot in the slight aperture and forced the door inward with his shoulder. Before us, in the dingy light of a gas jet which hung from the ceiling far back in the hall, was a Chinaman, clad in black pajamas and a pair of sandals. He was barely five feet tall.

  “What you want?” he asked, in an antagonistic, falsetto voice, backing away quickly against the wall to the right of the door.

  “We want to speak to Mrs. Kenting,” said Vance, scarcely above a whisper.

  “She not here,” the Chinaman answered. “Me no know Missy Kenting. Nobody here. You have wrong house. Go away.”

  Vance had already stepped inside, and in a flash he drew a large handkerchief from his outer breast pocket and crushed it against the Chinaman’s mouth, pinioning him against the wall. Then I noticed the reason for Vance’s act:—only a foot or so away was an old-fashioned push-bell toward which the Chinaman had been slyly reaching. The man stood back against the wall under Vance’s firm pressure, as if he felt that any effort to escape would be futile.

  Then, with the most amazing quickness and dexterity, he forced his head upward and leaped on Vance, like a wrestler executing a flying tackle, and twined his legs about Vance’s waist, at the same time throwing his arms round Vance’s neck. It was an astonishing feat of nimble accuracy.